


J'adoube

by TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [14]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Learning how to move on, a fair amount of grief, but there is a bit of self-blame, stuff like that, this is mostly just wholesomeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 18:50:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: Tom can't just watch Felix all the time, so he picks up an old hobby.





	J'adoube

Tom had been in Kjellberg’s office several times since he’d started working for him, but he’d never spent long. There was just something about it that made him uncomfortable. It could have been the way it was just disorganized enough to make him wonder how his employer ever found anything. It could have been that Kjellberg usually dismissed him after entering, if not in the hallway before. It could have been something else entirely.

Thus, it wasn’t terribly surprising Tom hadn’t seen the small, framed photo on Kjellberg’s desk.

Five people were in it: four men and one woman. The wall behind them undoubtedly belonged to the Tiny Box, even though the rich color didn’t come through in the black-and-white.

That wasn’t even the most surprising thing.

Kjellberg was in the picture, in the middle, hand on Liguori’s shoulder. Liguori himself had his arm slung over the shoulders of someone Tom didn’t recognize. On the other side of Kjellberg, a woman who seemed vaguely familiar.

And, on the other side of her, Mark.

Tom stared at his brother’s face, gaze picking out all the familiar parts, and all the things he didn’t recognize. There was his smile, his obvious joy at being with these people. The casual way he was standing.

These were his friends, and, if Liguori’s presence was anything to go off of, they were specifically his  _ speakeasy _ friends.

“I was wondering how long it would be before you saw that,” Kjellberg said softly, jerking Tom out of his thoughts.

“Who are they?” Tom looked at Kjellberg. “I recognize you, and Liguori, and M- and him, but… not the other two.”

Kjellberg picked up the frame and touched the left side of the frame, the man Tom hadn’t recognized.

“This was Jack, our lovable, energetic, all-too-determined Irishman.”

The other one involved in the night where Mark’s rib had gotten broken, then.

“You won’t be able to speak with him, I’m afraid.” Kjellberg sighed, tilting the picture side-to-side. “He died the same night as Mark. Mob fights are nasty business.”

The gunfight that night had been between the McLaughlin Boys and the Liguori Family. And Liguori was mafia himself. What were the chances he’d had to fire on someone he’d once called a friend?

“And the woman?”

Kjellberg set the frame down and folded his hands.

“Madame Foxglove.”

So  _ that _ was what she looked like.

“Why was she there?” After all, her business was brothels, not speakeasies.

“She sponsored the place. Paid the bribes to keep the bulls who visited quiet.”

“She was that closely involved?”

“She and Mark discussed business almost every night. They were friends, though.”

“...why did he get wrapped up in this? Who’s idea was it?”

Kjellberg put his hands in triangle of thoughtfulness, fingertips brushing his lip.

“They’d already begun working things out by the time I was brought into the equation.”

Tom blinked, then looked at Kjellberg in a new light.

“How did you find it?”

“Freddy’s?” Kjellberg leaned back in his chair. “Madame Foxglove brought me so I could see what I was helping with.”

Kjellberg had been the supplier. Of course.

Tom frowned, turning this information over in his mind.

“You know,” Kjellberg said suddenly, “you don’t have to watch me all the time, and I’m sure you’ve burned through my library by now.”

Tom winced. Burned. Like the Tiny Box.

“Poor choice of words, perhaps.” Kjellberg pursed his lips. “Tell me, Fishcbach, do you have any hobbies?”

Tom hesitated, then sighed before he spoke, “Before the war, before I became a judge... I wanted to be an artist.”

Kjellberg leaned forward in his chair, then stood.

“Follow me, would you?”

Kjellberg led him down the stairs to the basement, then stopped outside a door. He hesitated, then pushed the door open, revealing a game room.

“Set up here, and let me know what supplies you need. I’ll cover them.”

Tom blinked again, then a third time as he realized what was going on. “I can’t just... I haven’t done serious art in years. And I can’t just take over a room.”

“Sure you can.” Kjellberg patted the doorframe. “I don’t go in here anymore. And don’t force them to be good. You’ve just got to do something other than watch me all the time, for the sake of your sanity.”

Tom hesitated, but nodded. It wasn’t like he could really refuse, at least not without being rude.

\-----

Painting again after years away was hard. Tom barely knew where to start.

He didn’t really think about that, though. This was just a hobby; he didn’t have to be good. He had to not think about anything at all and just paint.

So he did.

It took him a few hours, then days—but the years hadn’t been totally unkind to Tom. Every time he stepped back from his first practice painting and examined it critically, he couldn’t help but admit... it wasn’t bad. There were certainly lots of places where it could be improved, and it was fairly obvious where he’d started and when he’d gotten the hang of it again, but it could easily have been worse.

Mark would have been proud of him for picking up art again. He wouldn’t have pointed out any of the flaws in the first painting, Tom knew that, and the thought made tears prick at his eyes. Mark had always wanted him to pursue art, even after the war.

And if he’d listened, if he’d ignored the men trying to get him involved in the judicial system, then maybe Mark would still be alive; nobody would have burned down the Tiny Box to get at Tom.

Because that’s what had to have happened, right? Nobody hated Mark; everyone loved him. Tom was the one with enemies. Lots of enemies. The Tiny Box had been known as his family’s restaurant. And the fire had been declared arson, so.... it had to have been one of Tom’s enemies.

Tom wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.

He missed Mark, more than he could ever explain.

\-----

The house was quiet this early in the morning, Felix mused as he walked the halls. It never used to feel so quiet, even if it really was. A while ago, if he got up this early, he’d come across Cry returning from skulking around town, doing whatever Faceless things he’d needed to do that night.

Felix’s steps faltered, and he looked down the hall to Cry’s empty room.

Marzia had said Cry promised he’d come back, that he said he’d explain everything that had gone on that night.

It had been over a month, and that hadn’t happened yet.

Felix walked over to the room and set his hand on the door.

Cry had never broken a promise before.

Felix sighed and closed his eyes before putting his forehead on the doorframe.

“I’m holding you to your promise, Cry.”

The room, unsurprisingly, didn’t respond.

Felix pulled himself away, then started wandering again.

For some reason, he found himself heading to the basement and stopping outside the door to the game room.

If he closed his eyes, it was like he could still hear the clatter of chips on the table, the soft conversation from the ladies, the increasingly drunken laughter, the shouts and exclamations of the various people around the table that September day, the thud of glasses as they were set down empty, the teasing Jack and PJ had thrown at each other-

Felix groaned and buried his face in his hands. It still hurt too much. So much had changed since that day. Friendships had been destroyed, and people had  _ died _ since that day. Dan and Phil were still recovering from Christmas Eve. Goodness knew what had happened to MatPat, though rumor had it Bluemoon had gone missing.

Felix lifted his head, only to realize the door had drifted open by itself. It must not have been closed all the way, then.

Despite the voice in him screaming that it wasn’t worth the emotions it would bring, Felix pushed open the door and stepped into the room.

Fischbach had been busy in the past few months, he realized as he examined the canvas in front of him. This painting wasn’t complete, but it had the makings to be a truly amazing finished product when it was.

And, as Felix glanced around the room and saw the various finished paintings Fischbach had done (ranging in size and complexity, most being small and simple), it would be a masterpiece indeed.

Felix cast an appraising look back at the in-progress canvas.

After it was done, he’d have to see if he could buy it. There was a lovely place in his ballroom where it could go.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to March! This wasn't a super long look into going-ons, I know, but it didn't really fit with any of the others and there wasn't much point in making it longer, so here it is. Thanks for sticking with us this far.


End file.
